Totally bullshit review, this film shows that Whit has evolved & this film is on top of my list as many others we cant wait for his next film
By Mood Indigo, reviewed
By Stephanie Zacharek
By Antonio Valenzuela
By Alan Scherstuhl
By Alan Scherstuhl
By Stephanie Zacharek
By Michael Atkinson
By Chris Packham
Back with his first film in fourteen years, Whit Stillman still operates in a world of his own. That's true with respect to both the singularity of his deadpan, dialogic style and his hermetic milieu. With Damsels in Distress, Stillman's followup to 1998's The Last Days of Disco, the urban-haute-bourgeoisie-as-endangered-species sympathies are more refined than ever. Whereas earlier works like Metropolitan and Barcelona regarded the real world from within a Stillman-tinted bubble — satirizing it without necessarily being of it, and transmuting realistic speech into poetic folly — this latest is all bubble: self-contained, unstably buoyant, and ardently frivolous.
On her first day at Seven Oaks College, transfer student Lily (Analeigh Tipton) is scooped up by a trio of prepossessed coeds who school her on campus culture and their own oddly refined sensibilities. Over group strolls and bunkbed chats, cardigan-clad ringleader Violet (Greta Gerwig), prim Rose (Megalyn Echikunwoke) and petite Heather (Carrie MacLemore) preach the virtues of good hygiene, dating down to less intelligent boys, and suicide prevention via the restorative potential of doughnuts and the old soft-shoe. ("Tap is a highly effective therapy," Violet insists.)
Stillman delineates his filmic vocabulary like a serial cartoonist, reusing musical cues and tracking shots — left to right, over and over, the pasteled posse promenades past the same strip of neoclassical buildings — and ascribing "Peanuts"-worthy tics and catchphrases to his characters. Heather is all blinking saucer eyes, and man-weary, sideways-glancer Rose offers the same phrase about every boy they encounter: "He seems like a real operator, a playboy." The exception is Lily, who serves as our disoriented guide—and increasingly emboldened voice of reason—through this refracted, artificial world. Yet while she's a more relatable everygirl, it's anachronistic, hopelessly romantic, impeccably mannered Violet who prevails as Stillman's heroine. When her mouth-breathing boyfriend ditches her for a more sexually aggressive gal, she falls apart almost as a matter of decorum, eliciting impatient condescension from Lily and charmed affection from everyone else. Her bounce-back? Hope for a new, self-authored dance craze called the sambola. "I adore optimism even when it's absurd," she says. "Perhaps especially then." Gerwig doesn't quite cut it as a preppie, but the slippage is the point. We're invited to laugh at Violet's execution but never at her aspirations or good intentions.
Within the left-leaning context of American independent cinema, the conservative streak in Stillman's films can feel defiant, even liberating. But considering the socioeconomic moment into which Damsels arrives, it's relieving how scarcely Stillman's reactionary subtext bubbles to the surface. The old world order is lionized, but more as an oblique, impersonal idea, while the past is pined after for its politesse, not its politics.
But the thing that Damsels values above all else is sure to rankle mavericks on both sides of the aisle. Forget the economy: It's about conformity, stupid. Rather than eccentricity, says Violet, "what the world needs is a large mass of normal people." At which point she and her cohorts partner off in matching outfits to synchronize a dance through campus to the tune of Fred Astaire's "Things Are Looking Up."
Four features in, Whit Stillman's cinematic sensibility is both plain as day and hard to pin down. In a Stillman film, a lost gentility is regularly romanticized but rarely ever properly defined, let alone re-acquired. Rules are fetishized for the implication, if not the realization, of order. And in this, his most plainly satirical film that is also arguably his least cynical, a bunch of aspiring conformists reliably do the most abnormal of things — sniff bars of soap, conjugate the plural of doofus, choreograph the sambola. Dancing breaks out in all of Stillman's films, and usually just because. All the cardigans and brass-buttoned blazers in the world can't cloak that kind of eccentricity.
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